What to do when the post-Christmas blues set in and the rain seems like it’s never going to let up? Get excited for awards season, of course.

It’s one of my weaknesses. The glitz, the glam, the carpet, the bevy of Hollywood royalty under one roof, and of course…. The hair. While sometimes a sceptic and always a realist, I also allow myself to dive into the shallow, fluffy pool of feathers and fairy dust that is celebrity. I remain unaffected when I do decide to come up for air, but god damn it, I enjoy my swim!

Let’s continue with the swimming analogy, shall we? Mostly because it’s hilariously ironic. (Those of you who know me will agree.)

I want to talk about The Oscars. There were fleeting moments that left me with that warm feeling that comes with peeing discreetly in a crowded swimming pool, but as an overall experience it was over-chlorinated and made my eyes sore. Unlike the Golden Globes. They reminded me of the time my brother and his wife came over for a Costco dinner that ended in smoking a joint and having piggyback races in my building’s pool (a scenario much more suited to a certain Mr Franco).

Instead of bore you with all the mundane detail that is my opinion… (More irony. Ha! Me? Mundane? I know!) I’ve decided to dish out my own awards… The 1st Annual Academy That Is Actually Just Made Up Of One Hair Stylist Awards, affectionately referred to in The Industry as The K-R0s. Drumroll please…

The Award for Most Awkward and Annoying Oscars host:

Anne Hathaway

Being humble is nice. Acting like you really think you don’t deserve to be hosting the Oscars… kinda just makes me think you don’t deserve to be hosting the Oscars. I respect Hathaway as an actress, I just wish she’d dialed it down a little. She reminded me of a geeky high school drama student and did nothing to dispel the myth that you can’t be into musical theatre and be pretty cool at the same time. (I’m still trying to convince my husband.) Besides, you can change your outfit as many times as you like, but you’re still just Anne Hathaway in a different dress.

The award for Making Being a Dirty Old Man Totally Acceptable:

Kirk Douglas

Not only were we okay with ol’ Kirky perving at Anne Hathaway on stage and nearly copping a feel of Melissa Leo’s right tit, but we thought it was adorable.

Was is the recent stroke that made it forgivable or just the fact that he’s a Hollywood Demi-god? Regardless, Mr Douglas’s award presentation was my favorite of the night.

The award for Rocking The Nastiest Movie Hair of 2010:

Melissa Leo

Miss Leo did such a great job of wearing that white-trash, bleached-out shag in The Fighter that nobody even knew she was a MILF in real life. And she dropped an F-bomb during her acceptance speech. After toiling away at her craft for decades and finally gaining recognition at fifty, i say she can pepper her speech with whatever the fuck she wants.

The award for Making Getting Knocked-Up Seem Like a Cool Idea:

Natalie Portman

She gets to be in loads of movies, she looks hot with a shaved head, she wears fancy dresses, she’s won an Oscar, she’s Jewish… I wanna get knocked-up too! Or maybe I just want to be Natalie Portman… That might be it.

The Just Because You’re Hot doesn’t Mean You Don’t Have to do Your Hair Award:

Scarlett Johansson

She’s not on my list of ladies I’d go gay for, but I know a lot of humans, with and without the penis, who’d love to do things to Scarlett, and I wholly respect their opinions. What I don’t respect? Showing up to the Oscars with your hair decidedly un-done. Maybe Scarlett had a drink before the ceremony and decided to work on her flat-iron curls. Maybe she got on the wrong side of a ceiling fan. Maybe Ryan used to just hate it when she wore her hair that way… I spent so much time speculating on the hair that I still don’t know how I feel about the burgundy doily dress.

The award for Hair That I Wish Was In My Portfolio:

Mila Kunis

Loose without it being messy and with a vintage finger-waved feel thrown in, Mila’s look was young and elegant. And yet, when I close my eyes, I just hear Meg Griffin. Such a shame.

The I’m Playing the Role of the Seashell in my School Play Award:

Cate Blanchett

We all have to start somewhere, but surely Cate has surpassed the stage of portraying inanimate objects. The beading on her dress could have been pretty. But something went wrong. I’ll get back to you when I figure out what it was.

The Award for Being Able To Do No Wrong In My Eyes:

James Franco

How was he as an Oscars host? Who cares? All i know is that I’m super jealous of the cliff that got to play The Cliff in 127 Hours. And I’d totally cut off his arm if he asked me to. And drink his pee.

… too far?

Maybe this is a good time to conclude my Oscars round-up. Besides, there’s only so long you can stay in the water before your fingers start to prune.

I don’t hate Valentines Day. (Mum always told me that hate is a strong word.) But for someone who’s blissfully married, I sure don’t care much for the Hallmark Holiday either.

I started thinking about the word LOVE when I was on the bus today, bound for my husband’s office. I called him briefly to tell him I was on my way and concluded the call with a sloppy, “‘Kay, loveyoubye” that rolled off my tongue so rapidly it could have been a foreign language. “Wow.” I said aloud, “that was the worst I love you ever.” the lady beside me with the pink Uggs chuckled. But really…

And then I thought about what day it is, and what I had to say about saying ‘I love you’ and thought it called for a spontaneous and relevant blog post. “You cold bitch.” I hear you muttering, “you really don’t care if you’re blogging on Valentines when you should be spending quality time with your mister man!” and now you’re imagining The Bradford as a poor, misunderstood victim… “He wears his beard so bravely!” You”ll say at the water cooler as you shake your head.

(For the record, he just finished making us a delicious dinner of hotdogs and chips and now I’m ‘letting’ him watch the last period of the hockey game.)

I am fortunate to belong to a family that uses the L word frequently. In fact, when he learned what it meant as a chatty little three year old, my older brother over-used it to such an extent that my mum was nearly driven to knock the I Love You right out of him. Just kidding. Actually I’m not.

The first boy I ever said it to was a drummer in a band. A lanky eleventh grader from a different high school who’s best friend had a car and drove us everywhere. (Thanks, Curtis.) I used to time the length of our basement make-out sessions by how many half hour sitcoms had gone by. I was still a good little Christian girl back then and thankfully the Bible never said anything about dry-humping. Still, that poor boy must have had balls as blue as Katy Perry’s wig. He loved me though. He said it first and I said it back. We said it back and forth and back and forth. We didn’t even feel like dry-humping. We just wanted to say I Love You. Beautiful, right? I know.

There may have been a couple of love-worthy boys between Drummer Boy and the Bradford but there were also a few duds. By the time Christopher said it to me, I was so accustomed to men that didn’t express their emotions that being with someone who did seemed strange and uncomfortable. I’ll never live down the time on the bus when I asked him to stop saying it so much.

And now, we say it every day. Sometimes once, but often more. Do some disappear down the phone as an unthought ritual? Does one of us sometimes reply, “I love you, too, babes” when the other was actually speaking to the cats? Yup. That happens too.

But the important thing is that we mean it. And we remind each other every day. And because we’re comfortable saying it to each other, it’s easier to say to others. To our families, our friends and yes, to the cats.

So now, I’ll wind down. After all, it is Valentines. And I don’t hate it, remember? But I don’t love it either. Do you know what I love? My husband. And I’ll tell him that any bloody day I like.

Am I a private person? Not exactly. I don’t air my dirty laundry on Facebook. And I’d never tweet about the interesting poop I had this morning. (I’d probably save it for our next coffee date…)

But some things, regardless of their slightly intimate nature are just so fantastic that you have to let the world know. In detail.

And one of those things, my friends, is my first Brazilian Wax.

You might be asking yourself why at the ripe old age of 30 I’ve only just discovered this mind-blowing procedure. Well, I hate body hair. And I’m a dark-haired girl. I still remember that moment in grade six when one of my peers was kind enough to inform me that I had a mustache. It was right after she’d belittled me for wearing 2nd hand clothes. Well, fuck you little girl. Vintage clothes are cool now. Besides, my mum taught me how to use tweezers that evening after I came home from school – a sad, deflated, fuzzy-lipped eleven year old.

From that day forth, I attacked hair removal with a vengeance and I never looked back. As soon as I noticed body hair, it was gone. Which is why waxing never occurred to me. Growing it out? For an extended period of time? Are you kidding? It would be like grade six all over again!

And then in late 2010 I got all crazy. I informed my husband that I was gonna let IT grow. HER. Downstairs. The basement suite. My lady garden. The garage where Bradford parks his Ferrari. Yup. He’s got a Ferrari. He was understanding as always. I talked up all the exciting perks… “it’ll be like a 70s porno, babe!” and “Maybe you’ll finally let me walk around the house naked when the blinds are up ’cause it’ll look like I’m wearing pants!”

Well, flash forward to early 2011. I hadn’t had a chance over the holidays to book my waxing appointment and the big George W that I’d been cultivating for so many weeks was starting to take over in Little Shop of Horrors fashion.

It. Was. Time.

I sought the advice of my friend and co-worker Jamie Fox. Yes, that’s her name. She sung the praises of her girl in Kits and dissected the service in detail, much to the dismay of our two pretty-boy apprentices who don’t like ANYTHING that has to do with vaginas.

Finally, on a very rainy day in late January, my George W and I went to Dona Lucia Spa on West Broadway to see the legendary Manjeet.

She ushered me into a little room and asked me to get undressed. There was a tiny blue towel on the table, which I gently placed over George W. Just because I was about to have him killed, didn’t mean he didn’t deserve a little respect during his final moments.

Manjeet entered, beaming. She spread my legs, slapped on the wax and… went for it. There’s not much to say about the actual experience because it only seemed to last for twenty seconds. Manjeet kept me talking the entire time, peppering each sentence with a “my dear”. She told me that waxing was her passion. I say, to each their own. I also say, if anyone is gonna be Between my legs in ANY capacity, isn’t it best if they’re passionate about whatever it is they’re doing down there?

Was it painless? No. Does it compare to getting tattooed? He’ll, no. So really, I can’t complain.

Manjeet is the best thing to happen to my vagina this year. In fact, we had such a good time together, I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t called…

“Oh, you blog!” my clients say as I hand them my business card with the title Hair Blogger typed neatly below my name.

“Oh, yeah, well… Not since last year… And I mostly blog about my cats…so really my website should be catsbykatierose.com… Haha…” I trail off and avoid eye contact with the front desk staff who hear this line from me more than five times per day.

I am (among other things) a hair blogger…. And yes, I confess, more often than not, a fur blogger also… I am a hairstylist, but I’m also the proud mum of two stellar felines. You try spending a few days with Frank and Brian without yearning to share tales of their awesomeness on the world wide web.

I won’t make excuses as to why this is my first post of 2011. I will say however that I went to write down the date yesterday and asked “is it the 8th or 9th?”

So, to start the year off with a bang, and to attempt to live up to my actual title, I’m giving away a whole shwack-load of hair products! Remember when I went to Toronto last year as a Contessa finalist? Well mama came home with a swag bag… And now this swag-bag could be yours…

The bag includes 10 products by Matrix, L’Oreal Professional, Joico, Schwarzkopf, Redken and Goldwell and retails for well over $100.

Do your hair a favor and help me keep my bathroom cupboards tidy in the process. It’s easy. All you have to do is follow me on Twitter (if you don’t already), find my tweet about this contest and retweet it. On Friday I’ll pick a winner and announce it via video on this here sweet lil blog.

I don’t hate Valentines Day. (Mum always told me that hate is a strong word.) But for someone who’s blissfully married, I sure don’t care much for the Hallmark Holiday either.

I started thinking about the word LOVE when I was on the bus today, bound for my husband’s office. I called him briefly to tell him I was on my way and concluded the call with a sloppy, “‘Kay, loveyoubye” that rolled off my tongue so rapidly it could have been a foreign language. “Wow.” I said aloud, “that was the worst I love you ever.” the lady beside me with the pink Uggs chuckled. But really…

And then I thought about what day it is, and what I had to say about saying ‘I love you’ and thought it called for a spontaneous and relevant blog post. “You cold bitch.” I hear you muttering, “you really don’t care if you’re blogging on Valentines when you should be spending quality time with your mister man!” and now you’re imagining The Bradford as a poor, misunderstood victim… “He wears his beard so bravely!” You”ll say at the water cooler as you shake your head.

(For the record, he just finished making us a delicious dinner of hotdogs and chips and now I’m ‘letting’ him watch the last period of the hockey game.)

I am fortunate to belong to a family that uses the L word frequently. In fact, when he learned what it meant as a chatty little three year old, my older brother over-used it to such an extent that my mum was nearly driven to knock the I Love You right out of him. Just kidding. Actually I’m not.

The first boy I ever said it to was a drummer in a band. A lanky eleventh grader from a different high school who’s best friend had a car and drove us everywhere. (Thanks, Curtis.) I used to time the length of our basement make-out sessions by how many half hour sitcoms had gone by. I was still a good little Christian girl back then and thankfully the Bible never said anything about dry-humping. Still, that poor boy must have had balls as blue as Katy Perry’s wig. He loved me though. He said it first and I said it back. We said it back and forth and back and forth. We didn’t even feel like dry-humping. We just wanted to say I Love You. Beautiful, right? I know.

There may have been a couple of love-worthy boys between Drummer Boy and the Bradford but there were also a few duds. By the time Christopher said it to me, I was so accustomed to men that didn’t express their emotions that being with someone who did seemed strange and uncomfortable. I’ll never live down the time on the bus when I asked him to stop saying it so much.

And now, we say it every day. Sometimes once, but often more. Do some disappear down the phone as an unthought ritual? Does one of us sometimes reply, “I love you, too, babes” when the other was actually speaking to the cats? Yup. That happens too.

But the important thing is that we mean it. And we remind each other every day. And because we’re comfortable saying it to each other, it’s easier to say to others. To our families, our friends and yes, to the cats.

So now, I’ll wind down. After all, it is Valentines. And I don’t hate it, remember? But I don’t love it either. Do you know what I love? My husband. And I’ll tell him that any bloody day I like.

I don’t hate Valentines Day. (Mum always told me that hate is a strong word.) But for someone who’s blissfully married, I sure don’t care much for the Hallmark Holiday either.

I started thinking about the word LOVE when I was on the bus today, bound for my husband’s office. I called him briefly to tell him I was on my way and concluded the call with a sloppy, “‘Kay, loveyoubye” that rolled off my tongue so rapidly it could have been a foreign language. “Wow.” I said aloud, “that was the worst I love you ever.” the lady beside me with the pink Uggs chuckled. But really…

And then I thought about what day it is, and what I had to say about saying ‘I love you’ and thought it called for a spontaneous and relevant blog post. “You cold bitch.” I hear you muttering, “you really don’t care if you’re blogging on Valentines when you should be spending quality time with your mister man!” and now you’re imagining The Bradford as a poor, misunderstood victim… “He wears his beard so bravely!” You”ll say at the water cooler as you shake your head.

(For the record, he just finished making us a delicious dinner of hotdogs and chips and now I’m ‘letting’ him watch the last period of the hockey game.)

I am fortunate to belong to a family that uses the L word frequently. In fact, when he learned what it meant as a chatty little three year old, my older brother over-used it to such an extent that my mum was nearly driven to knock the I Love You right out of him. Just kidding. Actually I’m not.

The first boy I ever said it to was a drummer in a band. A lanky eleventh grader from a different high school who’s best friend had a car and drove us everywhere. (Thanks, Curtis.) I used to time the length of our basement make-out sessions by how many half hour sitcoms had gone by. I was still a good little Christian girl back then and thankfully the Bible never said anything about dry-humping. Still, that poor boy must have had balls as blue as Katy Perry’s wig. He loved me though. He said it first and I said it back. We said it back and forth and back and forth. We didn’t even feel like dry-humping. We just wanted to say I Love You. Beautiful, right? I know.

There may have been a couple of love-worthy boys between Drummer Boy and the Bradford but there were also a few duds. By the time Christopher said it to me, I was so accustomed to men that didn’t express their emotions that being with someone who did seemed strange and uncomfortable. I’ll never live down the time on the bus when I asked him to stop saying it so much.

And now, we say it every day. Sometimes once, but often more. Do some disappear down the phone as an unthought ritual? Does one of us sometimes reply, “I love you, too, babes” when the other was actually speaking to the cats? Yup. That happens too.

But the important thing is that we mean it. And we remind each other every day. And because we’re comfortable saying it to each other, it’s easier to say to others. To our families, our friends and yes, to the cats.

So now, I’ll wind down. After all, it is Valentines. And I don’t hate it, remember? But I don’t love it either. Do you know what I love? My husband. And I’ll tell him that any bloody day I like.